When I Stand Alone (I Don't Need No Memories)
by Kallanda Lee
Summary: A Bucky-centric fic that explores some feelings and events after the end of Captain America: The Winter Soldier. It will take you into the broken minds of broken people. Not the happiest thing I've ever written, so here's your fair warning. Not a shippy fic, but strong friendship themes, and maybe some Steve/Bucky undertones if you squint really hard.
1. The Night is Full of Tears

Chapter 1 - The Night is Full of Tears

The streets were almost empty now that the sunset robbed the world of light. His clothes were still wet, and it was colder as night fell, chilling him to his bones. He tried very hard not to think about his physical discomfort, but it came harder to him now that he no longer has a mission or a goal.

As the last people disappeared from sight, his eyes locked on his target: a silver-colored car that was hidden from the all-revealing street lights by shadows cast from a nearby building. He forced the lock open by muscle memory and lifted his aching body into the drivers' seat. The alarm started wailing, and it made him physically cringe. His right arm - broken and difficult to move - reached for the shift stick and tried to put the vehicle in first gear. Muscle memory, too, from a time that no longer existed. The car was an automatic, he realized. Had he driven one of those before? On some mission, surely, he must have. But whatever programming or training he might have gotten then, he could not for the life of him remember how he was supposed to drive the damn thing. Not much point in trying to steal a car you can't drive, he thought.

"What the hell's going on down there?", an angry voice sounded from the distance. An elderly woman, determined and unafraid despite her advanced years and her fragile frame, was leaning out of her window. She was peering in his general direction; her attention drawn by the unrelenting car alarm that no-one else seemed to take notice of.

_A woman after my own heart_. The thought came to him out of nowhere, catching him off guard. It was gone as quick as it came, like a shard of a childhood memory that was mostly eroded by time, but still remembered on a primal level. He pushed the thought away, deliberately avoiding triggering the deep pools of his mind that had been untouched for decades. How could he know his heart, he pondered, if he did not even know who he was? It was silliness. A frivolous thought exercise he could not afford right now.

Realizing he was drawing unwanted attention and that he wasn't going to get the car to start, he accepted defeat and willed his aching body into motion again. He nearly lost his balance as his feet hit the concrete. His step turned into a limp, but he recovered before gravity got the best of him. He was holding his composure by willpower alone. He was tired and cold and hungry. His mouth tasted of blood and copper. And the pain - God, the pain was unbearable. One side of his pants was wetter than the rest of him, and he knew it was blood, not water causing the stain. His arm felt weak and fragile, and he very much tried not to think of the fact he might lose this one, too, without proper medical care - and there would be no fancy cybernetic replacement this time. All he wanted was to lay down, close his eyes and get some sleep. But the city would give him no release.

He walked for hours, switching to a sort of automatic pilot, desperately seeking a place where he could rest his broken body.

He could keep going if he could just keep up the rhythm of putting one foot in front of another.  
He could keep going if he could will himself to reject despair.  
He could keep going if the pain was only physical and his mind was empty.  
He could going if he was a weapon and not a man.  
He could keep going, he told himself, even as his legs failed him and he collapsed to his knees.

His body would go no further, he realized, no matter how much he needed it to. He studied his surroundings, looking for shelter. He had ended up in some sort of suburb, it seemed. There were large,stand-alone houses surrounded by well-kept gardens and clean pavements that were decorated by neatly-positioned trees. He could even spot a white picket fence from the corner of his eye.

He was hit by two conflicting emotions at the same time. The first, a feeling of loss and dread for a future that was robbed from him. The American Dream he had hoped to dream when he was just a boy, hoping one day he'd make enough money to move to a place like this - maybe raise a family, get a dog, grow old happy. The second, a feeling of resentment and disgust at all that that dream represented, installed in his mind by being trained by the Soviets, by being the Winter Soldier. Those two thoughts existed simultaneously in his mind - and he wanted to withdraw from both of them but couldn't. He was too tired to fight it.

Then came the sinking feeling, the realization that had already formed at the back of his mind but he had not dared acknowledge until now: that he was *both* Captain America's friend *and* the Winter Soldier - and no matter how they tried, all the King's horses and all the King's men, could not separate those two again. Once those memories would start coming to the surface in full force, his mind would hold the lives of both a hero and a killer - inseparably entangled in the same neural network. And he wasn't sure that, when that day would inevitably arrive, he'd be able to stop himself from cutting out his own heart just to stop it from hurting.

He dragged himself to his feet, managing a few desperate steps, before he fell to the pavement again. He tried to fight back his tears, but failed, and bit his own lip as punishment for his weakness. Another thought welled up, one that made it difficult for him to pull another breath into his already aching lungs. What if it wasn't the Russians who made him feel disgust and resentment? What if he just hated these people for having that which he now could never have? What if the hate was just him - only him, and not the brainwashing or the training? More tears welled up in his eyes. He bit his lip harder, and hated himself a little more.

He wondered if perhaps he could end it all - right here, right now. He still had a gun. He still had bullets. It would only take one, for a well-trained killer. One bullet and there would be no more pain, ever. One bullet and he'd never disappoint himself or anyone else again.

But then came the realization that that wasn't true. That come morning, he might be discovered by a little boy or little girl on their way to school - traumatizing them, taking away their innocence and sense of normalcy, just as it was taken from him. He wouldn't wish that upon another living soul, let alone a child.

Despair nestled itself into his heart and he felt trapped by both his body and his mind.

It was then that he saw it through the leaves. It was just some kid's shaggy treehouse but to him it was better than all the gold in the world. He was lucky that it was long after midnight, and his presence in the area had gone unnoticed. He desperately tried to reach the treehouse , more crawling than walking. After what seemed an eternity, he let himself fall the the ground, leaning against the tree trunk. He breathed heavily as his metal fingers wrapped themselves around the wooden ladder. Looking up, those few feet he needed to climb seemed like an insurmountable task. The metal appendage was the only part of his body that wasn't firing desperate signals of pain to his brain. Sadly, not the same could be said of the shoulder it was attached to - that hurt all the more. Forcing his body to exert itself one last time, hem managed to pull himself up by the prosthesis. His legs, little more than dead weight now, made the final effort.

He hit the threehouse's floor with his full weight and was amazed it had actually managed to hold him. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he looked around and realized it probably belonged to a little girl. There were pastel-colored cushions with happy-looking embroidered animals, like frogs and owls, positioned on the floor in a way one could sit on them. In the middle stood a little table with floral inlays, and on top of that a set of very small teacups and a matching little teapot. He dragged his body forward, trying not to break anything. He reached for the cushions, positioning them together with the last of his strength, so they formed a very basic, makeshift bed.

"Thank you, thank you," he whispered barely audibly - to God, maybe, or Lady Luck, or whatever power that could influence his fate. Himself, even, maybe - as his own name was right up on that list of 'things he didn't believe in'.

He lay down on his back, his body thanking him for finally giving it what it needed. He stretched his broken arm out away from his body, not wanting to damage it as he slept. He flexed his fingers and was immediately subjected to a jolt of pain. He would try to tend to it in the morning, as he did not have the strength now.

"Please let me keep this one. Please." he pleaded once again to any higher entity that might be listening. He could feel tears well up in his eyes again, but felt he wouldn't even have the strength to cry now, even if he wanted to. He looked up at the ceiling, where there was only darkness. As his eyelids grew too heavy to keep open, his metal arm found one of the cushion and pressed it against his chest, semi-hugging it for comfort as sleep came to claim him.

Then the dreams came, and the dreams were full of memories. The memories were full of pain, and the night was full of tears.


	2. Reachin' for the Light

Chapter 2 - Reachin' for the Light

Steve Rogers woke up some time before dawn, even before the ungodly hour that the nurses came to check on the patients. It was unusually quiet. All he heard were the footsteps of a lone orderly out in the hallway and the hum of traffic that was almost a constant in any large city. And then there were the birds that, like him, had woken up before sunset. Their songs and chirps penetrated even the double glazed window of the hospital room and they put a smile on his battered face. Pain fired as his facial muscles moved, but he kept smiling, if only for himself.

In a way, he enjoyed the pain. No, enjoying was the wrong word. He _relished_ it. Since the super serum he healed much faster than a regular human being and any cut, any bruise was gone within a few hours. These had stayed atypically long. Bucky's superhuman strength and metal arm were probably to blame - and he was glad for it. Despite what Bucky said even before the serum, it wasn't that he _enjoyed_ getting beat up; it's just that he didn't particularly mind. Physical pain was just a discomfort, but one that would pass sooner or later. After the serum, though, pain became rarer and it made him feel a little more _human _to feel it. That's why, on some level, he wanted to feel it.

He ran his hand over the cuts on his face. They were already fading. But they were still reminders that it really had happened. Bucky was _alive._ Not alive and _well_, but alive still, and Steve had learned to be thankful for small favors.

He willed his aching body to sit up, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Glancing down, he saw his shield propped up against the side of the bed. Someone - not him or Bucky - must have gone through great lengths to retrieve it from the bottom of the Potomac.

As for himself: he was no longer hooked to a heart monitor - a sure sign the doctors believed his life was no longer in danger. His arm was still connected to the bag of fluids of whatever they were giving him for pain. He suspected it was actually completely useless. It seemed he didn't react to pain medication any more than he did to alcohol. That was likely why he was up so early. They had probably counted on the stuff making him drowsy. But, he was more awake than he had been for months.

He pulled the needle out of his arm. There was a small sting and a tiny drop of blood, but the hole closed immediately. He was amazed that there were no loud alarms going off, considering Fury must have deemed his life still in danger. Yet the room remained totally quiet, and shielded by the cover of darkness.

He got up, trying out his legs. They hurt, but did not fail him. He dragged himself to stand before the window, and felt a small jolt of pride and achievement when his fingers touched the glass. It was no great heroic feat to walk those few steps, he knew, but his childhood had taught him you cannot push a sick or hurt body beyond certain limits. You need to be grateful for what your body allows you to do.

He peered out over the city. Lord knows where those birds were hiding, because he certainly didn't see them. In the distance he could see the first rays of daybreak over already busy streets still full of nocturnal illuminations. Against the window, it looked like his hand was desperately reaching for the light.

Somewhere out there, he thought, in the vastness of urban civilization before him, Bucky Barnes was hiding. Bucky was hiding and hurt and alone - and it tore him up inside. He knew his friend remembered enough not to kill him, to reconnect to his pre-war memories somehow, but Steve couldn't estimate how much he'd gotten back. He couldn't tell which scenario he deemed worse: Bucky being out there with most of his memories still missing, helpless and confused or Bucky out there with his memories slowly seeping back, realizing the gravity of what had been done to him. Either thought was unbearable to Steve.

While he accepted he couldn't start searching for Bucky in the state he was in now, he knew that every second wasted was a second Bucky got further away, the trail ran colder, and finding him would be more difficult. Steve did not want him falling in HYDRA's hands again, nor did he want him to go rogue and kill some people he might regret killing later.

At this point he didn't even know what he'd do with Bucky even if he found him. Even if he could _get through_ to him. Let him join The Avengers? There might be some protest from the others and even he couldn't deny Bucky was a liability. Get him some much-needed psychological counseling and rehabilitate him? Bucky might not be so keen on someone trying to get into his mind again. Just find him a little place and let him live out his days in peace? He doubted _any _version of Bucky in _any _universe would be fine with that.

Every hypothetical rescue plan he ran in his head had potential to backfire, and it made him apprehensive for the future.

"Trying to break free?" a female voice asked.

Steve knew who it was even before he turned to face her. Only Natasha could sneak in on him without making so much as a single sound.

The smile she threw him as their eyes met was slightly forced, but he couldn't read her enough to know why. Worry? Pity? Fleeting thoughts about one of her missions he wasn't in on?

"You know, you're lucky it's me and not Sam. He'd give you hell over getting out of bed."

Steve grinned: "Yeah, I know. He means well, you know. I just think he doesn't quite accept that there's things he can't fix sometimes".

"Guess that makes two of you."

"I'll be good as new in a day or two. The serum has perks like that."

"We both know that's not what I'm talking about, Rogers. You're going after your boy once they let you out, aren't you?"

Steve moved away from the window, making an effort not to look like walking hurt him in front of Natasha. He was facing her now, her blue eyes looking up at him intently.

Not so long ago, he would not have trusted her with this information, but in these past few days he had instinctively reclassified her from 'colleague' to "friend'.

"I _have _to, Natasha. I can't just leave him out there, alone."

Natasha just nodded, her face betraying neither approval or disapproval, or really any other emotion at all.

"You'll need help." It was a statement, not a question.

"You'll help me look?"

She shook her head.

"Sorry, Steve. But not this time. After what happened, I need to disappear for a while. I still have contacts, though, favors I can ask. I could see what I can find, before I go."

"Really, would you?"

"I...I might already have done some research. I didn't want to dig deeper without your permission, though. I'll get you what you need. But Steve..." Worry showed on her face now, for the first time. "I'm only doing this because I know I can't stop you either way. You're poking a hornet's nest here. You'll find things you wish you hadn't seen."

"I know."

"No, you really don't."

"Maybe you're right, Natasha, but I just want to find him. I want him to be safe."

She sighed. Standing on her tippy-toes, she reached in for a hug. Steve winced mildly as she squeezed his wounded body, but returned the hug with genuine affection.

"Bud' ostorozhny v svoikh zhelaniyakh, Steve, oni mogut ispolnyat'sya," she whispered in his ear. Then she kissed him on the cheek and moved to leave the room.

"Hey, wait, what does that mean?"

"As you Americans say," she said over her shoulder," Be careful what you wish for...you just might get it. Also, you might want to brush up on your Russian before this is through." And with that, she was gone.

The early morning light had started to invade the hospital room, and it seemed that with it, Steve was yanked back to reality.

He was doing this. He was _really _doing this - and he'd do it alone if he'd have to. His best friend was out there and he wouldn't rest before he found him.

His body seemed to disagree on the _not resting _part though, because his knees buckled and he only just managed to keep his balance. He returned to his bed reluctantly.

He was more tired than he had expected, and sleep overtook his body just seconds after he rested his head on the pillow.

As the sunlight touched his face, his dream wandered to the Brooklyn of his youth, shaped by the nostalgia of his memories. Here the streets were always sunny and filled with the laughter and shrieks of playing children. His body was still small, but he didn't feel sick or fragile. Among the children, one silhouette crystallized: it was Bucky, smiling warmly, beckoning him to follow him on whatever mischief or adventures he had planned for that day. Steve followed without hesitation. And had anyone still been in his hospital room, they would have seen Steve Rogers smiling in his sleep.


End file.
